A Becoming Frailty
by beckyhughes
Summary: What if Charles Carson had become a star of the stage? What if he'd fallen in love with a clever, Scottish seamstress? Mostly Chelsie, but other characters will inevitably pop up. Period AU, pre-series, sort-of class-swap, with some canon quotes/events? Honestly, IDFK. Rated M because mama likes her smut.
1. The Actor and The Seamstress

A/N: Hi guys! So, I have no idea how often I'll be able to update this. It's mostly just been something to fiddle with when I can't stare at work anymore or I have writer's block to bust out of. But it's a nice, fluffy lil' AU that I'm sure I'll come back to, and I'm open to ideas about where you'd like to see it go. Basically, I just need an outlet since the next year of my life is entirely devoted to research and medicine and non-fiction. And there's no more Downton so I might as well play in this universe while I still can!

* * *

 **London, 1887**

"Thirty minutes 'till curtain!"

"Thank you, thirty," Charles Carson mumbled, straightening his cravat as he nervously paced his dressing room. Opening night was always a bit edgy, always made him sweat a bit more profusely, his stomach tumbling uncertainly as the clock ticked closer to the top of the hour. It didn't help that he wasn't particularly fond of the play, least of all the Scots' accents and beside of that, the play itself left much to be desired for his part in it.

He'd been with the company going on two years now, and been steadily awarded the leading roles — the problem was, the repertoire wasn't particularly sophisticated.

He longed to showcase his skills with something a bit more _cerebral_ , something that would shake the foundation of his very life, his very understanding of the world around him. He'd left ol' Charlie Grigg — _the drunkard_ —let him take Alice — he could have her, the miserable _wench_!

 _Charles Carson_ would be a star of the stage. He would be great.

He would have _any_ woman of his choosing, not be limited to the dregs of society who found themselves bopping around washed-out theatres, with their torn leotards, greasy hair and those red-stained pouts! _Just as likely to be blood as lip color_ , he huffed to himself, slumping down on the tattered couch that sat derelict at the far corner of his small dressing room.

Outside his door, feet thundered down the hallway — supporting players, younger than he, laughing and tittering on as though they hadn't a care in the world. He sighed, pressing his hands against the tops of his knees — and it was then, he realized, there was a tear in his trousers, right along the seam.

" _Blast!_ " he thundered, and immediately the racket in the hallway came to a sudden halt.

A moment later, a tentative knock on the door preceded the pointy, panicked face of Mr Molesley, the stage manager.

" _M-M-Mister_ _Carson_?" the spindly man inquired, his thin eyebrows raising expectantly.

"I've a run in these trousers!" he bellowed, "With thirty minutes to curtain and I — "

"Twenty," Molesley said.

"What?"

Molesley swallowed hard, " _Twenty_ minutes, sir. Until curtain."

"Well!" Charles blustered, "You will have to _hold_ the curtain. I cannot go on stage with a rip in my trousers. _I will not."_

"Mr Carson, I'm terribly sorry but — well, Phyllis has gone home, I'm afraid. Our little boy's taken ill, you see. She left about an hour ago."

Carson sighed, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. Phyllis was the theater's seamstress and — _usually_ — the only reliable person therein. He simmered over the guilt that welled up in him when he realized he expected her to be here no matter what the circumstance. He knew better than to think that her life, or Molesley's for that matter, could revolve around the theater when they had each other — and a child.

He, on the other hand, had nothing _but_ the theater, _but_ this silly play — and when people didn't seem to prioritize it as highly as he did, he felt a peculiar sense of loneliness and superiority, all at the same time.

Maybe thinking himself so much higher up than the rest of them had destined him to be alone. _Heavy is the head that wears the crown._

". . .maybe she can see to it."

"Who?" Charles frowned, having been so intensely ruminating on his own internal monologue that he had failed to hear Molesley's proposed solution to the problem at hand (or, as it was — _at knee_ ).

"She's quite new, only been in the costume shop but when Phyl went home, she sent for her to come in to help for the performance. Phyl likes her, says she's capable as any."

"Fine," Charles said, throwing up his hands, "Bring her here, whoever she is."

Molesley turned on his heels and headed down the hall. As Charles listened to the sound of feet receding, and the constant, deafening sound of the audience settling in just above his head, he racked his brain, trying to come up with whatever he'd done to anger the thespian Gods and thus, have this unfortunate fate thrust upon him.

When Molesley had skittered off, he'd left the door to Charles' dressing room ajar, so that when a slight, stern woman pushed it open, he didn't hear her enter. It was only when she stood above where he had reclined on the couch, clearing her throat sharply, that his eye shots open and he sat up — bumbling as he struggled to get his bearings.

"Molesley's said you've a teeeeer?"

Charles blinked, his eyes focusing on the woman's. They were a dark, dark blue, so dark that for a moment, in the dim light of the room, he nearly mistook them for black.

She seemed tall because he was seated, but as he stood, smoothing his hands over the front of his shirt, he realized just how much he towered over her. She was slight, a few inches of smooth, brown hair piled atop her head, and started up at him, pursing her lips testily. He heard the heel of her boot tapping against the floor.

" _Mr Carrrson_?" she said again, her accent as thick as her mounting impatience.

"Yes, _erm_ —" he began, sitting down again so that he could stretch out his leg and show here where the weakened seam was along his knee, "I've a tear — right here. I need you to mend it."

Her eyebrow shot up and she cocked her head slightly, "Don't they teach you actors any manners a'tall?"

Charles frowned, his face flushing, "I don't care for your tone, _Miss_ —?" he stuttered, realizing he hadn't even asked her name.

"Elsie May Hughes — but I don't expect you'll remember," she sighed, kneeling down so that her chest was at his knee. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a small sewing kit, lowering her face to closer inspect the fabric. Her shoulder edged up against his other knee and he realized that she was positioned somewhat. . . _compromisingly_.

Charles watched the top of her head bobbing from side to side as she contemplated, then, in his self consciousness, he cleared his throat.

"Shouldn't I disrobe?" he said, hoping that she wouldn't attempt to make the repair while he was still wearing the trousers, lest she find a reason to stick him with the pins.

She looked up from between his legs, her mouth curled up in a self-satisfied little grin, "We've only just been introduced, Mr Carson — I may not be a lady but I should think you'd take me to dinner first."

His face now gone completely, _horrifically_ red Charles stood immediately, jostling her so much that she slumped forward, her hands shooting out in front of her, bracing her from smashing her face off the edge of the couch.

"That's no way for a woman to speak," he barked, "Positively _vulgar!_ "

Blowing an errant strand of hair from her forehead, she hobbled up to a standing position, popping her hands firmly on her hips, "Mr Carson do you want me to mend your trousers or not?"

He paused a moment, then cocked his head curiously, ". . .you're _Scottish?_ "

"How _clever_ you are, Mr Carson," she frowned, "Given that you lot — with yer put-upon accents— sound more _Irish_ than Scottish _,_ I'm surprised you could even identify a wild Scot when ye found yerself face to face with one," she looked down at his torn pant, "Or — as it were — face to _knee._ "

For the first time since their encounter began, Charles actually took a moment to look the woman over properly. At first glance he'd found her rather plain — a seemingly simple black, cotton frock, tightly laced black boots — but when he looked closer, he noticed the intricate embroidery on her bodice and hem, which she'd no doubt done herself. A testament to the skills she was putting to work at the theater, for certain.

She was unlike the woman he had grown accustomed to. Dancers and actresses began to look all the same after a while; the same ingenue character painted onto a young woman's face over and over again. But _she_ was different; bare-faced, freckled. Her skin wasn't quite so powdery and fair as the women he was used to seeing about; instead, she looked as though she languished in the sun, warmed to it even. Her blue eyes were boring into him, now – perhaps, sizing him up, too, with her pretty mouth screwed up into a lopsided grin.

"Five minutes! Five minutes to curtain!"

The voice booming from the hallway startled them both, and Charles felt his heart begin to uncomfortably race, "Now _see here_ , Miss Hughes, Mr Molesley is about to call places, in case you weren't aware of how the theatre works, and that means that if you're going to be able to mend my trousers, you're going to have to come back stage ," and with that, he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out into the hall.

"Now _wait_ just a bloody minute," Elsie protested, digging her heels into the wooden floorboards, "You can't well expect me to sew it up in the pitch dark?"

Charles turned swiftly to look back at her, a cowlick of hair falling onto his forehead. He grinned wickedly at her, a sudden kind regard for her blooming in his chest.

"Miss Hughes, consider this is your initiation. You are amongst the stars now," he winked, "We're all the light you'll ever need."

* * *

Charles stood outside the theater after the show, the night dark and still around him. From where he stood beneath a lone streetlamp, he contemplated taking a step toward home (which was but a modest flat in the West End) or popping his head into the pub where he knew the cast and crew went each night after the final curtain had fallen.

All but Mr Molesley, of course, who had run home just as soon as he could to his wife and little boy. For a bitter moment, Charles wondered what it would feel like to have something to care about with that much desperation. But the feeling quickly passed and instead was replaced by the notion that he would not mind a drink.

He stuffed his hands into the pocket of his coat and headed on down the cobbled streets toward Pagani's, where he knew the company members would have more than likely reserved their room in the back for drinks and perhaps a little dancing — with what energy they had to undertake this folly, he could not say.

The shock of stepping out of the silent chill of the street into the thrumming, moist heat of the pub made him cringe. But the promise of a Scotch made him push through the throng of boisterous, somewhat slick and sweaty pub goers until he reached the bar. A familiar face smiled at him.

" 'allo, Charlie old boy," the barkeep said, tossing a rag he'd been cleaning a glass with over his shoulder, popping a hand onto his hip as he leaned against the bar, "How'd the show go?"

"Just fine," Charles sighed, settling onto the barstool, "I see everyone's crowded in," he looked around, making no attempt to hide his judgment. Despite the fact that he, too, had come in hopes of a drink — and perhaps, a bit of company.

"Good enough, good enough," the barkeep said, turning away from Charles toward the line of bottles behind him. He knew what to fix him, there was no need to ask.

Charles watched the man, wondering how long he'd been at this place. If he'd ever hoped to do something with his life other than mop up a bar.

He squinted, watching him deftly poor the drink, and realized he couldn't conjure up the man's name. _Had he ever even known it? Did it matter?_

" 'ere you are, Charlie," he said, sliding the glass toward him. Charles nodded in thanks and immediately picked it up, tipping the cool glass to his lips and sighing as the Scotch hit his tongue. _Yes, this was exactly what he needed._

The music swelled up again all around him, pounding in his head and making him contemplate, momentarily, asking the barkeep if he had any headache powder. He turned on the barstool to look out across the room. If any of his castmates had noticed him come in, no one had made to come speak to him. They were all quite a bit younger than he was, and those who were his age were married now, and home with their families by this late hour. Just as he took another sip of his drink and began to turn around, he heard a thunderous whoop from the crowd and all of a sudden, it seemed that the room had become alight with vivacious energy. He set his drink down and stood, and as if by some unseen force, he felt himself begin to cross the room, headed for where a bunch of folks were dancing, spinning round and round, indistinguishable from each other in their constant motion.

Except for one woman who seemed to be holding the entire room captive.

He stood rather agape as he watched her. It wasn't that she was a dancer per se, she didn't have the build nor the training of the women he danced with on stage. But it didn't seem to matter. She was uninhibited in her movements — throwing her head back with laughter as she spun through the arms of all the men on the dance floor who were eager to partner with her for a few bars. Even the dancers from the company stood somewhat intrigued off to the side, watching this woman with her dower black frock become the brightest light in the room.

When the music finally stopped, everyone cheered, and the woman pressed a hand to her chest, smiling widely, as she struggled to catch her breath. The men came round to kiss her cheek, and she blushed, reaching across them to where she'd left a drink on a nearby table. She knocked it back in a single swallow, shaking her head and closing her eyes as it washed down her throat and pooled warm in her belly.

When she opened her eyes, she looked straight at him — and when she realized that he'd been staring at her, that she had captivated him, all she could do was laugh. Her eyes sparkling, she wiped her mouth across the back of her hand, letting her thumb linger on her bottom lip, her teeth nibbling uncertainly on her fingernail.

He wanted to look away, but felt that he was incapable of controlling his eyes, he could not turn his head, could not lower his gaze — and finally, when he felt that he might faint, because he had not taken a breath in what must have been several minutes — she moved out of his line of vision, disappearing into the crowd.

He exhaled sharply, his eyes pressing tightly closed. He felt an overwhelming heat in his chest, a rustling in his core that immediately concerned him. He was deeply aroused, enticed, fascinated — when he opened his eyes again, he felt a sinking in his stomach at the thought that he'd lost sight of her, that the moment of beauty was gone.

Then, he felt a hand on his arm.

"Did yer trousers hold up, Mr Carson?"

He blinked, his breath caught somewhere just beneath his collarbone, "I beg your pardon?"

She laughed, reaching up to push the hair from her face, "I mended them in the _bloody_ dark," she scoffed, "I was afraid I'd dropped a stitch or two. I'll fix them properly before tomorrow night — I think Phyllis will be gone another night. Poor lad of hers has the croup."

He knew she was speaking, but he couldn't hear her. He just watched the way her pretty lips moved, the fullness of the bottom one caught now beneath her teeth. He raised his gaze to look at her eyes and saw that she was looking at him rather peculiarly.

"You alright, then, Mr Carson?"

He snapped his mouth shut upon realizing it had been open, foolishly agape like a stunned boy, "Yes, yes. Quite fine. Tired and . . .well, I think I ought to finish my drink and go home."

"You haven't even had a dance yet!"

He frowned, "Miss Hughes, I dance to earn my bread why on Earth would I ever want to undertake it when I am not working?"

She raised an eyebrow, silently calling him out. She'd seen him staring at her as she whirled about the room. She knew he had been thrilled by her. Giving his arm a light squeeze before dropping it, "Because it's _fun_ , Mr Carson," and with that she sashayed away from him, driving him absolutely wild because she did not once look back to see if he was watching her.

By the way she swayed her hips, it was clear that she _knew._

* * *

The first week of the run dragged on as the theater plodded toward a night off, a dark night so called because all the lights in the theater would be off while everyone stayed home and recuperated. When Monday finally rolled around and he realized that he did not have to perform, he was filled with a sense of relief — but also a pervasive sense of uselessness. He didn't quite know what to do with himself if he wasn't rehearsing a play, or studying lines, or standing in the wings waiting to perform.

Looking around his tidy, modest flat he realized that he didn't even have a dish in the sink to wash. He supposed that he could just stay in and read a book, but it looked awfully nice outside, and he thought he wouldn't mind a nice stroll in the sun.

He put on his coat, donned a bowler hat and set out on foot down the street toward Piccadilly Circus. He thought perhaps he'd have a drink and potter about for the afternoon. He could have taken a train out of the West End, gotten away from the theatre district for a day, but he felt no need. Everything he knew, all that was good and familiar to him in the world was within his reach in Theatreland and he felt no great desire to seek pleasures elsewhere.

As far as public houses went, The Cross Keys was perhaps his favorite haunt. He could frequent it for longer stretches than some of the clubs around London, mostly because there was rarely any loud music and the patrons mostly kept to themselves. In his knapsack he carried a book and a few shillings so that he could have a brew and one of their perfectly ordinary meat pies. When he pushed in the front door, he nodded to a few of the other regulars, but did not stop to say hello.

He sat down at a corner table by the window that looked out over the streets of Covent Garden. Although the public house was dark and somewhat heavily atmospheric, the sunlight coming in from the window warmed his face, and he sighed contentedly as he removed his book from his pack, then settled the bag onto the floor beneath his chair.

"Ale and a pie for ya, Mistah Charlie?"

He looked up and saw a familiar face. One of the young barmaids — probably far too young to be working anywhere, least of all a public house — stood next to his table, her stained apron tied tight against her lithe frame, completely devoid of any feminine curves.

"Right you are, Anna," he said, giving the tiny blonde woman a small smile. He didn't make a habit of remembering the names of West End barmaids, but Anna was sweet and he had to assume that life had been unfortunate for her, if she found herself employed thusly at such a tender age.

He frowned as he watched her turn and head back toward the kitchens. If a girl her age must work, better she work in service, a laundress or kitchenmaid in some manor house where at least she'd be somewhat sheltered. Not left to fend for herself amongst the dredges of society. He signed and opened his book to where he'd last left off, making a mental note to leave Anna a shilling before he left.

She returned with his meat pie and drink, wiping her hands on her apron as she asked if she could fetch him anything else.

"No thank you, Anna."

"I read the reviews in the paper, Mister Charlie. They say you're as good as Sir John Hare, they do. And twice as handsome."

Charles blushed, "I shouldn't want to accuse you of fibbing, but I cannot imagine anyone would write such a thing about me in the papers."

"Oh, but they _have!_ " Anna squealed, "I've got one out back, shall I bring it to you?"

Charles winced, a bit embarrassed, "Erm, I think not just now, Anna." The girl's face fell and she lowered her gaze. He softened, "Perhaps you could sneak the paper out to me when I'm leaving. Then, I could be chuffed at home where no one will see me blush."

Anna gave him a small smile and made to speak, but they both looked up as a voice called out to her from across the room, the sound of heels clicking across the floor announcing a presence.

"Oh, Miss Hughes!" Anna said, grabbing her skirts so that she might pick up her steps, falling into the woman's arms. Charles looked up and watched as Elsie embraced Anna with cheerful familiarity.

"Well now, what a warm welcome!" Elsie laughed, "How are you, m'dear?"

"I'm so glad y'came in, I just couldn't wait to tell you. I took your advice, I did!"

Charles didn't want to eavesdrop, but the two women were just close enough to his table that he couldn't comfortably ignore them. He also found it near impossible to ignore Elsie's presence. He had not yet made eye contact with her, but he was almost certain she'd seen him when she came in.

"Why don't you fetch me a pie, like Mr Carson's got, and then you can tell me all about it?" Elsie said, looking over her shoulder to where Mr Carson sat.

"I should like to tell you both," Anna said, eyeing Charles uncertainly, "I would introduce you but it seems you know one another?"

"Aye, we do," Elsie said, coming over to Charles' table, "From the theatre," she looked at the chair and then back up at Charles, "Might I join you?"

Charles blinked, "Certainly, Miss Hughes."

She smiled, sitting down as she turned back to Anna, "I should very much like a drink Anna but I'm afraid if I drink in front of Mr Carson he should think me very common. So perhaps you could brew a pot of tea?"

"I'll be back in a jiff," Anna said, and she disappeared into the kitchen once again. Elsie turned to Charles, placing her elbow on the table and settling her chin upon her hand.

"Making the most of your day off, I see?" She said, eyeing his book, "I hope I haven't disrupted your reading."

"No no," Charles said, "I should prefer your company to that of Mr Dickens."

Elsie had clearly not expected him to be quite so forward, and when she didn't speak he looked up to see that she'd begun to blush furiously.

"Now that Phyllis has returned am I to assume you've been relegated back to the costume shop?" Charles said, making rather a show of cutting into his pie with the side of his fork.

"I have for the time being," Elsie said, reaching up to fidget with her earlobe, "Though Phyllis has said she wishes to spend more time at home with her bairn, so she would like me to split the week with her."

"Does that suit you?" Charles said, calmly chewing the bite he'd taken as she spoke.

"Aye," Elsie said, flicking her gaze up to where Anna was crossing the room toward them, "Suits me fine."

Before he could inquire further, the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor and Anna plopping down into it at their table disrupted his thoughts. Suddenly, despite his affection for the girl, he couldn't help but wish she had not sat down at the table and interrupted the moment that had just manifested with Elsie.

"Go on then, what's the news?" Elsie asked, reaching for the teapot.

Anna beamed, "Remember that advert you brought me, _weeks ago,_ but do you remember it?"

Elsie nodded, pouring Anna a cup of tea before setting the pot down between them. She glanced up at Charles.

"An advertisement for —?" He asked, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

"For a job in Yorkshire," Anna said excitedly.

"One of those estates is looking to employ a parlormaid, and I think service would suit Anna far better than work in a public house," Elsie said matter-of-factly, setting her teacup down and reaching for her utensils.

"I happen to agree wholeheartedly," Charles said, "I have oft wondered how it was that you found yourself here, Anna, and I would like nothing more than to see you take on such path of employment."

Anna smiled, "Thank you, Mr Charlie — well, you'll both be pleased to know that they have written me back and would like me to come up to be interviewed."

Elsie clapped, "Oh, Anna, that's marvelous."

"Good on you, Anna," Charles said, suddenly quite confused by a feeling of pride blooming in his chest. He hardly knew the girl, yet he found himself quite pleased by the situation.

"The thing is, Miss Hughes I was hoping maybe you could help me mend a dress of mine. None of them are very nice, and I want to look tidy—"

"Of course you do, love," Elsie said, covering her mouth delicately with her fingers as she finished chewing, "Why don't you come by for tea and bring whatever you have for frocks and we'll mend them. When are you to go up to Yorkshire?"

"On Friday," Anna said.

Elsie nodded, "Mm, well then, perhaps you should drop them by the theater. I can mend them between acts," she glanced up at Charles, "Perhaps _Mister Charlie_ would even be so kind as to find you a seat so you could see the performance?"

"A well deserved treat, I should think," Charles said, reaching for his napkin, "Come by any night this week, Anna, I'll see to you."

"Oh, thank you both. Truly, thank you," Anna said, "If I should get the job I will miss you terribly," she giggled, "I should have known you two were acquainted, both of you are so very sweet." A gaggle of patrons came through the front door and Anna bopped up, "Oh! I should get back. I'll be seeing you."

Elsie and Charles watched her skitter away, losing her little blonde head in the crowd after a minute or two. There was an amicable silence between them for a moment, until Charles had finished his pie and set his fork down with a rather jarring clatter.

"How long have you known the lass? Anna?" Elsie asked, nodding toward the bar.

"Well. . ."Charles thought, "I've been coming to this pub since before she was born, I'm sure of it, so I suppose I've known her so long as she's been here."

Elsie smiled, sticking her fork into her pie, "We must have been crossing one another's paths here before now," she popped a bite into her mouth, looking up at him.

"Perhaps," he said, "Only. . .well, I suppose I would not have noticed. I tend to come here to read."

She stopped chewing, then, swallowed, looking at him apologetically, "I _have_ pushed in on your day off, haven't I?"

"No, no," he said softly, removing his napkin from his lap and setting it on the table next to his plate, "I rather have enjoyed your company. And Anna's," he sighed, looking across the room to where Anna was standing beside a table of rather rowdy men. His chest ached, "I'm glad to think she'll get out of here. It's no place for a young girl."

"I agree," Elsie said, "I'd march up to Yorkshire myself to give her reference if I thought it'd make any difference."

Charles hummed in agreement, "How does a young woman find herself all alone in this city, that's what I wonder."

Elsie snorted, rather unbecomingly, and when he looked up at her she immediately blushed.

"I beg your pardon," she said, coughing slightly, "It's only . . .well, I rather see a lot of myself in Anna. I suppose that's why I've taken her under my charge."

"How long have you been in England?" Charles asked.

"Oh, only a few years. Lived in Scotland for most of my life, but I suppose you could tell that much," she smirked.

"What brought you here?"

Elsie visibly stiffened, growing suddenly very uncomfortable, "A gust of wind," she said, forcing a smile, and then stood abruptly, taking her plate and the tea tray into her hands, "I'll leave you be, Mr Carson. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon."

"Elsie?" He said, a bit louder and more suddenly than he intended. She paused, turning back to him somewhat caught off guard.

"Yes?"

Charles cleared his throat, standing in kind and lifting his plate from the table, "If you don't mind, I should like to walk you home."

Elsie bit her lip prettily, looking up at him from beneath her long, dark eyelashes.

"I should like that very much, Mr Carson."

* * *

The next night, when he returned to the theater, he was somewhat disappointed to find Phyllis in his dressing room, brushing the dust off one of his jackets.

"Hello Phyllis," he said, removing his hat and hanging it up on a hook on the back of the door, "And how is your boy?"

Phyllis gave him a small smile. She was a gentle soul, with dark hair and pale skin that made her quite beautiful. She was so tender, in fact, that she hardly showed her teeth: not when she smiled or laughed, not when she spoke. If there was ever a gentler soul on Earth, Charles had yet to meet them.

"He's quite well, thank you Mr Carson," Phyllis said, her voice low and very calm.

"How old is the lad now?"

"Almost two," Phyllis said, her eyes sparkling, "He's rather rambunctious when he's feeling well."

"As boys are," Charles laughed, sitting down in front of his mirror. He looked at his reflection and considered, for a moment, how his features might look on a child. If he were ever to have one, which seemed very unlikely indeed. For that would require a wife, and he couldn't imagine any sensible woman wanting to be married to an actor. What with the late nights, the touring, the beautiful women. . .

But he did wonder, sometimes, what it might be like. To have a family. A wife. To father a child. He winced softly at his reflection.

 _Though perhaps not with this nose._

As though she had been listening to his thoughts, Phyllis spoke up from where she sat mending on the settee, "Have you ever thought of taking a wife, Mr Carson? Raising a family?"

It certainly occurred to him to lie, but for some reason he did not.

"I've thought of it, I suppose. From time to time. But I'm getting on and. . .well, when a man becomes married to his career, any woman he may court therefore becomes his mistress."

Phyllis gave a light laugh.

"You and Mr Molesley have managed nicely," Charles said cheerfully.

"We have indeed," Phyllis said, holding up his jacket to inspect it once more before standing, draping it over her arm, "I think everything's sorted, then. Though I did want to mention that this is the only night I'll be in. Elsie will be handling the rest of the week. So if there's something you'd like me to tend to —"

"Has Elsie been given a formal position with the company?"

"For now she's my assistant. I'll still be the costume mistress but. . .well, my priorities have shifted. And I'm perfectly happy to pass the torch in due time."

"I see," Charles said, and he wasn't altogether unhappy with this turn of events, "I'm sure if there's anything I need, Elsie will see to it. I don't want to keep you."

Phyllis hung the jacket up on its hook and paused behind Charles, looking at him in the reflection of the mirror.

"Before Joe, I thought I couldn't love anything, or anyone, at all," she said, "And then, _after_ Joe, when the baby came, I thought I couldn't love anyone or anything so much as I loved _him_ ," she smiled her gentle smile, settling her small hand on Charles' shoulder, "A heart will grow to hold all that you love. It's _you_ who determines what you'll chance in order to fill it to near bursting."

Charles gave her an appreciative smile and waited until she'd left the room. Then, he opened the dresser drawer just to his left and pulled out a small stack of letters, atop of which was a picture that had begun to fade. He stared at it for a moment, then sighed, tossing it into a nearby wastebasket. He then unfolded the letter gingerly, squinting at it a moment, catching only a few of the words he knew by heart, having read it over and over again, trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong.

 _Dear Charles, so sorry, you're just not, I could never, it's not what I want, but Charlie Grigg, I'm sure you could understand, don't you ever get terribly bored with yourself?_

It was the last line that echoed in his head, night and day, taunting him with its glaring truth. He consider the letter only a moment more, than tossed it into the bin as well.

And for a few days, he forgot about it entirely. Forgot about Alice, about Charlie Grigg — _the bastard_ — and all that had happened between them. It wasn't until he came in for the Thursday night performance and found Anna and Elsie in his dressing room that he remembered. And the only reason he did, was because as he greeted them and settled into his dressing table, he saw the photo in a frame, glinting in the corner of his eye.

"I'm looking forward to the show, Mister Charlie," Anna said. Charles looked up. Out of her plain, barmaid frock and apron, Anna was a breathtakingly pretty girl. Her hair had been braided half way, so that her long locks hung down to the middle of her lower back. Her large blue eyes shined at him.

"I hope you enjoy it," he said, making an effort to continue to look at her, when really he wanted to let his gaze stray to the photograph in the ornate frame.

Anna scuttled out into the hall and Elsie made to follow her, turning back just long enough to eye Charles' reflection in the mirror.

"Anything I can fetch you before I head up?"

He pursed his lips, eyeing the photograph. Then shook his head.

"I think not. Thank you."

She frowned, folding her hands in front of her middle, "You look displeased."

He sighed, setting down the charcoal pencil he had been tentatively bracing below his eye, "I am a bit mystified about the presence of that photograph just there," he said, moving only his eyes, the rest of his body stone-still, "I'm thinking that someone must have gone through my things. And aside of that, once they had invaded my privacy to that extent, taken it upon themselves to frame a photograph that I intended to never see again in my lifetime."

Elsie made a bit of a face, then lowered her gaze, "I thought it was a mistake. I thought someone had tossed some of your papers in the bin, Mr Carson. Cleaning up the programmes and what-not. I did not mean to pry. I thought that I was rescuing something."

He softened his gaze, "But the frame?"

She shrugged, "It seemed far too pretty a picture to go without."

He sighed, setting the charcoal pencil down and looking at the photograph, regarding it how one might a wild animal: with a bit of wonder and plenty of caution.

"She's very pretty," Elsie said, running the tip of her long, elegant fingers along the edge of the silver frame, "Your wife?"

Charles scoffed with a bit more bitterness than he intended, "No, and I should think that isn't any of your business."

Elsie bristled, taking a step back from him.

"I'm sorry, that was a bit more harsh than was necessary," Charles said, rubbing the palms of his hands along the thighs of his trousers, "She is _not_ my wife, no. I have never married."

"Well," Elsie said, a bit awkwardly, "Even still, she's very pretty, and if you kept her photograph and her letters, you can hardly blame me for assuming she meant something to you."

"No, I suppose I cannot," Charles said, "And she did. Mean something to me. Once," he sighed, taking the frame in his hands and admiring it for a moment. It was very nice. Much nicer than anything he'd've expected a seamstress to have.

"What's her name, then?"

"Alice," he said, his lack of hesitation stunning him momentarily. "Her name is Alice Neal. Well, Griggs now. I suppose."

Elsie nodded slowly, "And you loved her?"

He nodded a bit sheepishly, "I did. But she did not love me back."

Elsie sighed knowingly, "We must all have our hearts broken once or twice before we're done."

"Perhaps that's so," he said, setting the frame back down again, "Anyway, I apologize for being curt with you. I see now that you were only being thoughtful, and I shall not chastise you for that."

"Well, in any case — _you're welcome_ , Mr Carson," Elsie said, reaching for the doorknob.

"It hardly matters now," he said suddenly, "How I felt for her. How I loved her."

Elsie paused, squaring her shoulders, "And whyever not?"

He looked up at her from over his shoulder, staring straight into her dark eyes, "I'm not too far gone, I shouldn't think. I could love again," he swallowed hard, "At least, I mean to try."

She pressed her lips tightly together and dropped her gaze for a moment. When she looked down at him again, there was a bit of a sparkle in her eye, he thought.

 _A chance._

* * *

He wanted to court her properly, but it never worked out that way. Not with their schedules, though it did mean that they saw one another almost daily — if only for glimpses at a time. He shouldn't have minded, except that as the weeks went on and spring changed into lusty summer, he realized that he wanted to spend time with her alone, without the world's endless distractions.

Shortly after the weather had warmed, Anna left for Yorkshire. She'd been hired as a maid at a rather posh estate called Downton Abbey. They had met her at the train station to say goodbye, and Elsie had promised to come to Ripon for tea the first half-day Anna was given. Charles had been a bit surprised, but not displeased, when the girl had set down her suitcase and wrapped her arms around his middle. He realized, then, just what a child she really was — and he was overcome with relief to think that she was leaving the bowels of London and headed somewhere that might give her a chance at a proper life.

"You'll write to all of us at Cross Keys?" He asked, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"I will," Anna said, "And if they ever bring me to their London House for the season — they have daughters, three of them, all very beautiful, — well, I'll write to you and let you know. And we could have a pint."

Charles chuckled, "I'll be more than happy to meet you in a _tearoom_ , Anna. No place for a respectable young girl — in a _pub_."

She gave him a smile and then hugged Elsie once more, even letting her kiss her upon the cheek, before she boarded the train, waving from her window as it sped off.

"It was good of you to help her," Charles said as they watched the train chug along away from the platform, steam puffing up and thickening the air around them.

When she said nothing, he looked down and saw that she'd taken a handkerchief from her handbag and was quietly dabbing at her eyes. He felt immediately embarrassed and wondered if he should leave her be. Before he could say or do anything, he felt her loop her arm through his. He looked down at her and she smiled tearfully up at him.

"Shall we walk back together?"

* * *

When the play's run came to a _blessed end,_ Charles spent an entire uninterrupted day stretched out in bed, trying to come up with ideas for entertaining Elsie the next time he took her out for an evening. He was courting her, certainly, but he didn't think he was doing an especially good job of it.

He rolled over in bed, looking out the window of his flat. London always seemed to be in the midst of a fog, even when the weather was warm and agreeable. He sat up and stretched, then rose from the bed and went to his window, looking out over the city.

A woman on the street caught his eye, and he realized in an instant that the woman in the dark green coat, was Elsie. She paused as a motor passed by on the street below, and then headed for his stoop. Rushing to throw on a pair of trousers and a shirt, he nearly skidded around the corner to the front door, throwing it open just as she'd poised her hand to knock.

"Well, good morning," she said, a bit startled. There was loaf of bread wrapped in paper cradled in her arm, and she held in her other hand a small basket of preserves, "I thought I'd see if you'd like to share my breakfast. I don't mean to push in, I was going to suggest we go for a picnic but –"

"Come in," he said, stepping aside, "I'll put a kettle on. I'm sorry I'm looking disheveled, I'm rather besmirched to admit that I had not yet roused myself from bed."

"I feel foolish having disrupted your rest," she said sheepishly.

"You've not in the least," he said brightly, "I should like your company. And, if I'm not mistaken, that smells like fresh bread and, dare I say, you've brought some preserves?"

She smiled, "Yes, well. . .I thought it might be nice to share. To celebrate the success of the show and," she sighed, "I suppose brace ourselves for the next."

Charles sat down, giving her a knowing look. Theater life was rather grueling. They were more often than not rehearsing the next show while one was still in production. He'd become rather skilled at it over the years, and the only thing he worried about now that he was nearing his middle age was perhaps his stamina would not be what it once was. As was evidenced by his desire to lay about all day to recuperate.

He watched as Elsie unwrapped the bread, her nimble fingers pulling back the paper with more precision than was necessary, but it was fascinating nonetheless. She couldn't be more than thirty, he ventured. Maybe thirty-five, but he doubted it. He was to be forty on his next birthday and he felt that he looked it. He would never ask, of course, but he did wonder. He couldn't fathom as to why.

"Here, let me get you a proper knife to slice that with," he said, and as he pottered around the kitchen he also put on a kettle and scrounged up some milk from his icebox.

"Did you always want this life, Charles?" Elsie said from the table.

"As an actor? I suppose. I fancied the idea even as a young boy, but I knew it would take earnest work and I couldn't rely upon my God-given talent _alone_ ,"

She tittered.

"What?"

She looked up, "I rather fancy _you_ , Charles Carson. And it costs me nothing to say it."

He cocked his head, studying her a moment, before he handed her a knife with which to begin slicing the bread. As she did, he turned back to the stove and volleyed the question back to her.

"Did you fancy this life for yourself?"

She didn't speak and he gave her a moment before he turned around. She had stopped slicing the bread and, instead, was looking up at him rather gravely.

"What've I said?" He asked quietly, joining her at the table, sitting down and gently taking her hand between both of his.

She hesitated, then shook her head dismissively, "I'm being silly."

"You're upset and there's nothing silly about that," he said.

She flicked her eyes up at him, then sighed heavily, taking her hand back and settling it into her own lap, "I came to England because of my sister."

He settled back in his chair, "You said you didn't have any family. That your parents were both dead and you never mentioned any siblings," he said, though he wasn't accusatory, merely attempting to understand. "I thought you were an only child."

"Perhaps that's because that's what I wanted you to think," she said, picking at a loose thread on her dress.

"I see. So, you've a sister, then? And you came to England because. . .she lives here now?"

Elsie winced, "She's . . .well, she's in Lytham St. Anne's now. For her health."

Charles shrugged, "Well, that's awfully nice. The seaside is good for one's health. Is she happy there?"

Elsie swallowed, "She's not on a retreat, Charles she's . . ."

But she stopped, struggling to keep from crying. Charles reached over and thumbed a tear from her cheek, letting his hand linger there a moment.

"She's _in hospital_ , Charles. And she will be the rest of her life, most likely."

"She's ill?"

Elsie shook her head, "Not exactly she's. . .in her mind, she's ill. They call it hysteria, perhaps you've heard about it? There are German doctors doing work with patients but not so many here . . ."

"I don't think I understand," he said.

"Sometimes I don't think _anyon_ e does," Elsie said, her frustration palpable, "Becky was always sensitive, — she was a _child_ for heaven's sake. She wept over the smallest things and was afraid of her own shadow. . ." she sighed, "When Da passed she stopped talking for over a year. But she was alright, mostly, after that."

"How old is she now?"

"Twenty-five," Elsie said quietly, "But she has the most terrible fits, you see. And before she died, Ma took care of her. Saw to it that she was kept safe. But when she died. . ."

"There was no one left but you,"

"Yes, precisely. And even after we sold the farm I didn't have the money to care for her properly. She needed to be cared for all hours but I couldn't do that and work. I tried to have women come from the village but they would be frightened away. Some of them thought she was a witch—"

"That's absurd," Charles scoffed.

"You wouldn't think so if you saw her having one of her fits. It is rather like she's been possessed at times," Elsie said quietly, "The public hospital in Lancanshire takes patients like her and it seemed like the only option but —"

Charles waited.

"— you see, the thing about the public hospitals, is that she's become . . .they show her off. As a patient, they show her off like a circus act."

"They're exploiting her condition?"

"I suppose they are, but they say it's for research. There are so many others like her, see? So if she's there, and they're studying her then — if they find something, if they can cure her. . ."

Her voice grew weak and trailed off. He could tell she was making a valiant attempt not to cry, but when her tears at last spilled over onto her cheeks, he said nothing, only wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against his chest.

They stayed that way until the kettle whistled, blaring in the silence, and he reluctantly pulled himself away so that he could tend to it. When he came back, he poured them both a cup and sat down again. And again, he waited for her to speak.

"I didn't want to go back to Scotland. I wanted to stay as near to her as I could. I worked in service for a time, but I was impatient," she looked up at him with a small grin, "I didn't much care for being told what to do, you see. I would have liked to be housekeeper but. . .well, the houses I served didn't see much advancement for a scraggly Scotswoman, I don't think," she sniffled, "But that's how I knew about the job for Anna, at Downton. One of the women I used to work with, who I kept up with, is the Cook there now. I think Anna will get on well with her," she sighed, pressing her hand against the table, stretching her fingers across it, "The only real skill I have aside from farming is mending clothes, and I've always made my own — and Becky's. I know a cousin of Phyllis' — he's also in Yorkshire," she laughed, wiping her eyes, "For all I know he might be at Downton too, but in any case, that's how I got the work with the theater."

"And now that Phyllis would like to stay home with her boy, there's a place for you."

Elsie nodded, "I've a steady income, and it's just enough to pay for Becky's care if I scrape but. . ."

Charles sighed, " _This_ isn't the life you wanted."

Elsie let her eyes close, then sighed, resting her chin in her hand, "It's not a _bad_ life,"

"No," Charles conceded, "But it's not the one you would have chosen."

She paused, then shook her head, "I don't mind the work so much it's only . . ."

He raised his eyebrows, " _Only_ –?"

"I would have like to have been married. Had a child," she said, turning her face away, refusing to look at him.

He reached over and tenderly placed his finger beneath her chin, guiding her back to him, "Why do you say that as though you've missed your chance?"

She looked up at him through her tears and squeaked, barely audible, "Haven't I?"

He held her gaze for a moment, and when she did not look away, he leaned over and softly kissed her, hoping she would answer him in kind.


	2. A Bit Risque

**A/N: Thank you for the lovely reviews! Here comes (** _tee hee_ **) the smut! Also, I guess this is also slowly becoming a Baxley fic, too? Didn't know I had it in me, but in an AU, anything's possible. Hope this tides you over for a bit! ;-***

* * *

The summer stretched out endlessly in front of them, and each night after the show Charles would retreat to his dressing room and strip off his clothes, wiping up the sweat that coated his skin as he quietly raged against the windowless room. Of course, he knew that in six months or so, in the dead of winter, he would be raging against the cold, his teeth chattering so much he could hardly deliver his lines. But for now, the thick, hot air was smothering him and all he wanted to do was submerge himself in a tub of ice and stay there.

There was a light rap at his door, and he told whoever it was to wait while he reluctantly wrapped himself in a robe. Phyllis popped her head around the corner of the doorframe.

"Are you decent?"

"Despite my best efforts to the contrary," he sighed, slumping down onto the settee.

Phyllis, with her hair unfurled around her face and sticking to it, must have been _equally, if not more,_ miserable, he thought. Yet she still smiled sympathetically at him, stepping into the room and pulling the door to behind her.

"I wondered if perhaps you'd like to come for dinner tomorrow night. I know it's our dark night but Joe and I thought we'd enjoy some company, what with this extraordinary weather. Lord knows we see so little of it in London."

"Blessedly," Charles muttered, "I _detest_ the heat."

"If I recall, you _also_ detest the cold," she smiled, picking up the clothes he'd deposited onto the floor and beginning to fold them.

"I should happily accept your invitation," he said.

"Lovely," Phyllis said, "We'd like to invite Elsie as well, but I thought perhaps you would ask to bring her along, unless I've misinterpreted your friendship —?"

Charles looked up, "Oh, well, I should like to bring her along, yes — if you wouldn't mind. We are. . .rather, we _have_. . .struck up quite a friendship, yes."

Phyllis gave him a knowing look, "I thought as much," she said, hugging the clothes tightly to her chest as she headed for the door, "Does 6 o'clock suit you?"

"We'll be there," he nodded, "Thank you, Phyllis."

"It's our pleasure," she said.

"Well, not only for the invitation but. . .the vote of confidence."

Phyllis smiled kindly, "I quite like Elsie," she said, "I thought perhaps you two would get on. I'm happy to see that you do."

"I should like to marry her," Charles blurted, and he looked completely shocked that he'd thought it, much less said it. Phyllis turned back to him fully, leaning her back against the door. Outside in the hall, people were laughing as they passed by, headed out to the pub, or perhaps to the river for a midnight swim.

"Oh?" Phyllis said, her eyes gleaming.

"Yes. . ." Charles breathed, "I'm not sure why exactly I've thought it just now. Much less _said it out loud_ but. . . _yes._ I think I should like to marry her."

"Do you think she would like to marry _you_?"

He blinked, "How would I know?"

Phyllis shrugged, "I suppose you won't until you've asked."

Charles shifted uncomfortably on the settee. He was feeling awkward and exposed, and still miserably hot, "If she doesn't, though, and I ask her — well, that would ruin the friendship, wouldn't it? She wouldn't want anything to do with me. And I would be far too humiliated to look upon her again," he sighed, thinking of Alice, "A man can only take so much rejection, you know."

"Joseph didn't ask me until we'd been stepping out for almost _four years,_ Charlie," she said softly, "He moved with about as much speed as a tortoise. But I knew I wanted to marry him, so I waited until he could muster up the courage. But truth be told, sometimes I wish that he'd asked me sooner. I should have liked to have been his wife sooner."

"I suppose I'm not getting any younger," Charles sighed, "And neither is she. And perhaps —" he stopped himself. It was not his place to suppose anything about her.

"Have you told her you love her?"

"Not in so many words. . ." Charles admitted, "Though, I should hope that she knows that I have a great deal of affection for her."

"She may well, but it never hurts to hear it said," Phyllis said, reaching for the doorknob.

"I suppose you're right," Charles said, getting up from the settee, the sweat sticky on his back.

"We'll see you tomorrow night," Phyllis said as she left. Charles watched her go, and then took a seat in front of his mirror.

He looked old and tired, and woefully lonely.

He wished that Elsie was with him. Or better yet, waiting for him at home in bed.

* * *

The Molesleys lived in a small walk-up on Charing Cross Road, which suited them dearly. It had been in Joesph Molesley's family for several decades back, so they were grandfathered into the property. It was a bit sparse, but so long as they had no more than one child, it would do just fine.

At least that what's Molesley told Charles as he poured him a brandy, gesturing for him to have a seat in a wingback chair by the window that overlooked the street. Elsie and Phyllis had escaped to the bedroom to look in on the baby, and the men decided it was as good a time as any to have a drink.

"It's a lovely spot, really," Molesley said, "We're lucky to have it."

"Indeed," Charles said, watching people below on the street, "Molesley, I should not want to seem impertinent, but might I ask you a question about your marriage?"

Molesley sipped his drink, settling into a chair across from Charles, "I shouldn't think that terribly improper — though I'm no _Don Juan_."

Charles laughed, "I wonder if perhaps Phyllis mentioned to you that we spoke a few evenings ago."

Molesley shrugged, "I don't think mentioned anything particular. . ."

Charles seemed a bit baffled, "I would have assumed she told you _everything._ "

Molesley laughed goodnaturedly, slapping his knee, "Women never share all their secrets, certainly not with their husbands anyhow," he sipped his drink, "Am I to assume you asked her about Elsie? If she fancies you?"

"Well, sort of."

Molesley nodded, "I'll save you the trouble of asking and just tell you straight: I knew Phyllis wanted me just so much as I wanted her because, after just a few weeks of stepping out with her, she'd constantly be touching me arm, or the like. You know, just acting like she wanted to be close all the time. And when we looked at one'nother, it was like we only saw each other, even if we were in a roomful of other people."

"If you knew so soon why did it take you so long to propose?"

Molesley flushed, "Even knowing she liked me well enough, I was afraid she'd say no and I'd lose her forever. I'd've rather had her as just a friend then not had her around at all. But finally I mustered up the courage to ask and it turned out she'd been patiently waiting for years. If it'd been proper she'd've asked me herself."

Charles smiled, "Well, I feel much the same. About Elsie, that is. I shouldn't want to ask her only to have her reject me — not just as a husband, but as a friend. I shouldn't want to lose her entirely."

Molesley sighed, "We were younger, we had more time to beat around the bush," he said earnestly, "If I were you, I wouldn't put it off," he leaned forward, lowering his voice, "Especially if you want children. Because I'll tell you, Charlie, it's wonderful but it's not easy — and I'm getting on, Phyl and I both are, but we're still younger than you and Elsie. And I'd hate to see you regret not taking the chance for the rest of your life," he downed the last of his drink and nodded to Charles' empty glass, "Another?"

"Yes— thank you," Charles said, handing over the glass, "I would, wouldn't I? Regret it."

Molesley nodded as he uncapped the bottle, "Charles you're already a miserable old codger at times, and losing that woman would only stand to make you unbearable."

Charles sighed, looking around the room. It was a cozy home, a lived in one. It brought him an unusual sense of calm.

"How did you propose to Phyllis?" Charles asked, taking the glass from Molesley and watching as he sat down again. Molesley grinned, nostalgia passing over his long face.

"Simple, really. Not something as special as she deserved, but when I got my wits about me and had a little courage, I just had to come out and ask. It was about this time of year, I think. After the summer Shakespeares, you know."

"Oh, I do ever. . ." Charles moaned.

"Well, I think it was after _Midsummer_ or, I don't know, might'a been _Hamlet._ Anyway, we were walking over to the pub after the show and it started to rain. God, it felt bloody amazing, after all that heat and it was just muggy and we were sticking to everything. It was one of those light kinda gentle rains. Like a mist, almost, but it was such a relief. And we were standing in the middle of the square, not even talking, just standing there letting it wash over our faces and — well, I just looked over at her and she was so ever-lovin' beautiful, so sweet and lovely and — well, I just leaned over and kissed her, I didn't even care who was looking, and when I pulled back from her I just asked her to marry me, right then and there. And boy did she laugh at me. I thought she was laughing _at me,_ you know, for asking, and I was about to start bawling right there I was so afraid, and then she just wrapped her arms around me and kissed me square and said she'd been waiting four bloody years for those words and of course she'd marry me," he looked into his drink and smiled, "And we didn't even have a proper wedding. . ."

"I recall," Charles said, "I was a witness — at the registrar."

"So you were. . ." Molesley said, "It's all a blur, sort of. Just the whole perfect mess of it."

"And you're happy?"

Molesley blinked, studying Charles for a moment before he answered.

" _Improbably_ happy," he said softly, "So much so that sometimes I wake up in the dead of night and have to pinch myself, thinkin' none of it's real."

* * *

"He's so sweet," Elsie whispered, reaching a hand into the crib to gently stroke the wee lad's soft hair, "You must be completely smitten."

Phyllis sighed contentedly, "He's a good baby, even when he's ill. He hardly ever fusses unless he's got a cough and who can blame him for that?"

Elsie looked down at the sleeping babe and her chest began to burn. She thought perhaps she'd begin to cry, but the ache climbed no higher than her throat, where it sat in a stubborn, painful lump.

"Being a mum is such an incredibly . . . _strange_ affair," Phyllis said, "To think that anyone can do it, really. Practically _anyone_ can be given a child to look after," she laughed sadly, reaching down to tuck the baby's foot beneath the blanket, "Before we had Felix, Joseph and I had gone to the foundling home, thinking perhaps we'd take one in. It seemed like we weren't ever going to be blessed with one of our own but we were only being impatient," she looked up at Elsie, "It made me terribly sad, seeing all of those children. Many of them orphaned but some just . . .well, it's so strange to think no one wanted them. And we did — that was the problem," she smiled sadly, "We would have taken _all_ of them if we could. Joseph loves children. He wanted to be a teacher, you know. He cherished his schooling as a boy and he's the cleverest man I've ever known."

Elsie nodded, "Has he thought about going for his teaching certificate?"

Phyllis shook her head, "If he has, he's never mentioned it. Of course, now that we've a little one to look after I don't think either of us would dare make any changes."

Elsie considered this a moment, looking down at the baby again, transfixed by how serene he looked.

Phyllis watched her, holding back the urge to tell her what she knew about how Charles felt. What she knew about him in general. Instead, she lightly placed a hand on Elsie's upper arm, giving it an affectionate squeeze.

"Shall we go see what our gentlemen have gotten up to?"

* * *

After dinner they sat around having drinks, Molesley and Phyllis cozied up on a corner settee, and Elsie and Charles in two wingback chairs which they'd moved, surreptitiously, a bit closer together. Halfway into their second round of drinks, Elsie slipped her hand into Charles', resting it in his lap. She did not look at him, but out of the corner on his eye he saw her smiling.

From the bedroom, Felix began to fuss. Phyllis looked at them all apologetically.

"I'll fetch him!" Elsie offered, standing rather excitedly.

Phyllis exhaled, "Oh, be my guest love. He's probably just heard us laughing and needs to be rocked back to sleep. But bring him out here if he doesn't settle, he might be hungry."

Elsie nodded and eagerly set off for the bedroom. Molesley and Phyllis watched her go, then both turned back to Charles rather pointedly.

"She's crazy about you," Molesley said, " _Surely_ you see it?"

"I don't know if I see it because it's _there_ or because I _want_ it to be . . . "

"It could be both," Phyllis offered quietly, "She looks at you when you're not looking at her, you know. She looks at you as though she can see your future."

"And _I know_ that look — _trust me,_ " Molesley said, "Come on, Charlie, don't muck it up. Don't lose your chance."

They heard footsteps coming down the hall, and they all looked up and smiled when Elsie returned to the room, a somnolent Felix on her hip, his head resting against her shoulder.

Charles felt his breath hitch as he looked at her, standing there holding the child. Her hair had gradually come loose around her face, soft tendrils freed from her updo. She bounced Felix gently on her hip, hushing him quietly.

"Oh, Felix darling," Phyllis said, unwrapping herself from Molesley's embrace so that she could stand.

"He's sleepy but he's fighting it," Elsie tutted, "I think he just wanted to come out and say hello."

Phyllis laughed, lifting her son from Elsie's arms. Charles saw sadness flicker across her face, and he was sure he was the only one who had seen it. Perhaps she hadn't even had time to register it herself.

"Felix, would you like to say hello to Mister Charlie?" She said, kissing the boy on the side of his head. Felix opened his eyes wider and regarded Charles curiosly.

"Hello Felix," Charles said, trying to keep his booming voice low as to not startle the sleepy child, "How do you do?"

From the settee, Molesley chuckled, "Charlie he's _a baby_ ,"

"I know that," Charles frowned, "But what else should I say?"

Phyllis smiled, settling the boy onto Charles' lap, "You don't have to say anything."

The small but noticeable weight of the child against him was all at once strange and familiar. His large brown eyes, which seemed very big indeed on the boy's tiny face, looked up at Charles with wonder.

"Hello, Felix," Charles said again, and he would have no doubt come up with something else to say, had the child not reached up and clocked him in the nose.

* * *

There was a week-long reprieve between two of the summer's longest running shows, and it was because of this that Charles decided he would like to take a trip to the seaside on holiday. He hesitated to ask Elsie, though he wanted very much for her to accompany him. He would even offer to pay for her to have a room separate from his, for he did not want to think his intentions untoward.

Still, when he offered, she seemed hesitant, and he could not figure out why. They were having a late dinner in a nearly empty pub near his flat, and after he'd spoken of the trip he noticed she stopped eating, staring rather dejectedly at her plate.

"I apologize, perhaps it was too forward of me to ask," Charles said, nervously adjusting the napkin that sat in his lap.

"No no," Elsie said softly, "It's not that, it's only —" she bit her lip, then sighed, taking a sip of her wine.

"What is it?" Charles said, reaching across the table to take her hand, "Whatever it is, you can tell me."

She sighed, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, "You'll think me _shameless_ ," she whispered, and he thought he saw tears glistening in her eyes.

He frowned, not understanding.

She flicked her gaze up at him, smiling only just, "I should prefer it if . . .if we were to travel together and. . .well, I shouldn't like it much to have a room of my own. I should like it if we stayed in . . .the _same_ room. . . _together_."

He blanched, staring at her for a moment. His heart began to race and he could hear it thumping in his ears.

"Charles?" She breathed, "Are you alright?"

He swallowed hard, then, returning to his senses, lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it softly, "With your permission, I shall book one room."

* * *

As soon as they boarded the train to Scarborough, there was a palpable change between them. It was as though leaving the city had liberated him; liberated his thoughts and emotions, allowing a more playful side of himself to emerge. He held her hand in the train car, occasionally reaching over to point out the window at something passing by, only to quickly kiss her neck.

When they arrived at the inn, he fumbled paying the front desk manager as he watched her wordlessly sign the guest log as _Mr and Mrs Charles Carson._

They were unpacking their suitcases in silence when he finally asked her about it. She was sitting at a small vanity, rubbing a sweet-smelling lotion on her hands and face.

She shrugged, "I suppose I didn't want you to be throughly _scandalized_."

She watched in the mirror as he laid out a few pairs of trousers on the bed, waiting for him to look up at her, to continue — but he did not. And she wilted just slightly at the thought that it had troubled him.

They set out for the boardwalk, she in a plum frock with a matching wide-brimmed hat, he in trousers and a simple button-down. They strolled along the seaside, breathing easier in the salt air, listening to the song of gulls crying overhead. She pulled him, somewhat reluctantly, from the boardwalk into the shore where she bent over and began to unlace her boots.

"You'll get sand in them!" He said, aghast, as though she couldn't possibly have realized that potentiality on her own.

"That's why I'm taking them _off_ ," she said, making her way down the shore toward the ocean's edge. He hesitated, but then followed her, the crashing of the waves against the shore a steady hum. When she reached the edge, where the surf broke against the sand, she turned and looked back at him over her shoulder, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand.

"Come on!" She laughed, picking up her skirts and taking a few steps into the water. He sighed, reaching down to roll up his pant legs and take off his shoes.

When he had, he took exactly two steps into the water. She was still several feet out from him.

"Oh, _come on_ Charlie!" She said, reaching out her hand toward him.

He blustered, "What if my trousers get wet?"

She sighed, letting her hand drop to her side again, then took a step closer to him, "Well, if they do, we'll _dry_ them."

"What if. . .what if a wave comes and knocks me over?"

She shook her head, sticking her hand out toward him again, "Oh, what if there's an earthquake? What if we're hit by a falling star? Good Lord, Charlie Carson!" With that, she rather determinedly grabbed him by the hand and yanked him farther out into the water. The cool waves undulated around his ankles was refreshing, but the real sensation that held him captive was that of her hand tightly grasping his.

They lazily strode back to their hotel as dusk fell around them, a blissful breeze picking up and cooling the air. Elsie had not let go of his hand since they'd walked out of the sea together, and he thought to himself that he wouldn't have minded if she never did.

It was quiet, unlike the hustle and bustle of London, where one could rarely hear the sound of their own thoughts, Scarborough boasted an elusive kind of silence that allowed Charles to get to know just what Elsie sounded like. More than her voice, which he knew well and had become something of a familiar comfort. Instead, he got to know the sound of her footfalls, the way she clicked her teeth against her thumbnail while she considered tarts at the patisserie, the way she blew almost soundlessly across the surface of her tea before sipping it. The happy little sounds she had made as the ocean surf cooled her legs, and how as they walked through the streets, she hummed somewhat to herself, a melody he didn't know but that once may have meant a great deal to her.

The inn was modest, but boasted a gorgeous view of the seaside and a rather ornate four-poster bed. Now that the sun had begun to set, and he could no longer contain the yawn that had threatened to emerge from him for the better part of their sleepy afternoon, it occurred to Charles that they would both be sleeping in that bed come nightfall; an actuality that did not trouble him so much as he found himself anxious for it.

"It's quite lovely," she said, and he looked up to where she was caressing one of the posts, which was rich mahogany. He nodded, grunting in acknowledgement, then sat down in a nearby chair so that he could take off his shoes — which, he noted, did attract a bit of sand, but he nearly didn't mind, "Charles?"

He looked up, and, without thinking, replied, "Yes, darling?"She raised her eyebrows, her mouth curling into a grin. He caught himself and cleared his throat, shaking his head a bit, "Sorry, I —"

"Don't be," she said, her face brightening, "I loved the sound of it, I love—"

He held her gaze for a moment, letting his shoes drop to the floor. He rose slowly from the chair and took a few steps toward where she had sat down on the edge of the bed. As he sat down next to her, reaching up to gently run the tips of his fingers up the length of her neck, he leaned down and kissed her, catching her gasp.

"Charles, _wait_ —" she said, pulling away and putting a hand on his chest. He looked at her for a moment and then she smiled, easing his nerves, reaching down and bringing his hand to her chest, "I only wanted to say that — that we're here and whatever should happen between us, well — if your intentions are — if you don't wish to —" she hesitated a bit, "I'm terribly worried you'll think me debauched for saying it; but if you are of the same mind, I fully intend to make love tonight."

He studied her for a moment, lifting his hand to gently stroke her face, as though he couldn't be sure that she was real. But the warmth of her skin against his fingertips, the way that she turned her head so that she could kiss them, parting her lips so that she could pull his thumb beneath her front teeth — he pulled away, standing abruptly and wiping his mouth — he felt himself begin to shake. He wanted her ravenously.

"You're _absolutely_ certain," he said slowly, trying to steady his voice, " _This_ is what you want?"

Something darkened behind her eyes, but she didn't move. Then, after a moment, she stood to meet up, reaching up to take his face between her hands, " _You_ are what I want," she whispered, her hot breath against his lips.

He shuddered, and something compelled him then — a wild lust that terrified and fascinated him. He was afraid that it would make her fearful, but as he gazed down at her he saw fire in her eyes, and it incited him. He stepped toward her, and she took a step back, biting her lip as she smiled.

He exhaled sharply and circled her; something about it felt vaguely animalistic, a lion stalking its prey. But he was not in control; it was she who had cast a spell upon him, and she _knew_ it. Her self-possessed sensuality, the commanding presence, was intensely erotic not just to him, but to _her._ He looked at her and realized in an instant that she was as aroused by her boldness as he was.

Startling himself, he grabbed her — more roughly than he intended, but unable to resist her. The suddenness of it, the way he was overcome by his own impulses, frightened him, and he almost immediately loosened his grip on her upper arms — but before the thought had traveled down his spine from his brain to his hands, she reached up and grabbed his jaw, kissing him roughly as she pushed him down against the bed, letting go only so that she could use her hands to bunch up her skirts and straddle him. The full weight of her against him, the rush of her scent and her warmth, was staggering.

He had never felt this way about a woman. He had never felt this way about anything. Of course he and Alice had engaged in intimate relations, though it was foolish. It was quick desires met easily; a romp, a gambol, a _fuck._

She pulled back and he searched her face, trying to catch his breath. He thought maybe he'd offended her somehow, but as his vision cleared he watched as she hastily began to unbutton her blouse. Without taking his eyes off her, he unfastened his belt and took off his trousers, then his shirt, so that by the time she had removed all but her chemise, he was likewise clothed in only his underthings.

"There's only been one man before you," she said quietly, almost gravely, "And he never saw me undressed more than this, even when we were together."

She was stunning, the milky skin of her shoulders dotted with freckles, the curve of her breasts welling up beneath the sheer fabric of her silk chemise. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip; he almost felt as though he'd begin to shake or pant.

"You don't have to. . ." he said, his eyes tracing the curve of her hip.

"I want _you_ to take it off," she said, reaching for his hand. He obeyed, and slowly grasped the chemise by the hem, then slipped his hands beneath it and up the sides of her ribs. She raised her arms gracefully above her head and he tugged the fabric over. He let his gaze gently fall over her body, and when he finally lifted his eyes to meet hers, she was smiling with such sweetness, such joy — and _relief_ , he thought. This puzzled him. How could she have ever doubted her own allure?

"You're beautiful," He said, letting the backs of his knuckles gently graze her cheek.

She exhaled a shuddering breath as she reached up to grasp his hand, tearing it away from her face and pushing it against her breast. Sitting up so that she was on her knees, she took his face between her hands and brought it roughly up to her lips, commanding him with her silent nerve. He didn't resist, quite to the contrary: he let the weight of her breast settle into hand, then reached for the other, listening to her soft exhalations as he grew bolder, letting a hand wander down her sides, squeezing her waist and settling atop her hips.

He pulled away from her mouth so that he could turn his attentions to her breasts, suckling on them each in turn as he contemplated the pain and strangeness of passion. She dug her fingernails into the skin of his shoulders, little pinches that only made him want to press against her, the way his entire body had begun to swell and tighten in response to her, how his heart beat loudly in his chest while his mind had gone still as death, as though the world had fallen away.

With Alice, he had never forgotten himself, never forgotten the room they were in, or been able to distance himself from their place in the world. It was motion without emotion — they fumbled thoughtlessly in pursuit of their own pleasure.

But here, with Elsie, he did not have to think, did not have to try. And although he had never seen her, his hand found her warmth blindly. He explored and her body directed him without words — the way her hips rolled toward and away from his hand, the small sounds of pleasure that she made in his ear, the way, after some time had elapsed and he couldn't have known how much — for all they knew the moon could have risen and fallen again — she began to shudder, a cascade of soft _yes, yes, yes,_ falling from her lips as she fell away from him, her head resting against the pillows.

She raised her chin, her dark eyes beckoning — and though he may have thought it wanton had it been any other woman, as she let her hand lay against her inner thigh, he could stand their separateness no longer. She was ready for him, warm and damp, the familiar musky scent intoxicating him. Pushing herself up on her elbows, she grinned at him drowsily as her fingers twitched at her center, as though a flame she could warm her hand against, but would not want to touch, lest she be burned.

He slid his hand up the length of her thigh, covering her hand with his. He gave it a gentle squeeze as he positioned himself between her legs, readying to enter her.

"Are you holding my hand?" She whispered, looking up at him adoringly.

"If you don't mind," he said quietly, "Just to steady myself a bit."

She sighed, her voice cracking a bit, "You can always hold my hand if you need to feel steady. . ."

He cocked his head just slightly, "I don't know how," he began, "But you managed to make that sound a little bit _risque_ ," he leaned down, kissing her neck as he slid into her, perfectly sheathed. They both exhaled at the same time.

" _And if I did?"_ She breathed, the heat of her breath against his ear where she'd nestled her face in his hair. He moaned, trying to keep his thrusts steady, but he was electrified by her. Each pull away from her made him desperate to push back in. The tension of the disconnect, the threat of leaving her, drove him absolutely mad. She was consumed by a similar passion, her hips rising so that she could meet his thrusts, her arms pulling him flush against her breast, her back arching, heels digging into the mattress.

His heart beat wildly in his chest, _oh God, oh God, oh God,_ on his breath. She buried her face against his shoulder, and he felt her teeth grazing the skin, biting down against him to muffle the sounds she'd begun to make. He smoothed his hands along her lower back, over her bottom, deepening his strokes until she cried out, the shrill sound startling them both.

He stopped, turning his head to look at her.

"Don't bloody stop," she whispered, pushing him over so that she, then, straddled him. With a sudden strength he wasn't prepared for, she leaned over him, grabbing his wrists and holding them above his head. He watched in fascination as she rose above him, lowering herself down with elongated, almost elegant movements. He gripped her by the hips, regulating the rhythm as he approached his climax again.

"Elsie," he breathed, his hands twitching involuntarily at her sides, "Elsie, I'm —"

She tossed her hair back, leaning down so that she could press her cheek to his, whispering, "We're getting on, you and I — we can afford to _live_ a little," with that, she turned to kiss him passionately.

Despite his best efforts to remain gentlemanly, as he came — harder than he could ever remember having done in his life, — in that spiraling moment in inescapable ecstasy, he gave her bottom a resolute _smack._

She gasped, then laughed just slightly, slowly suckling on his bottom lip, "Well, would you look at that. . ." she whispered, nudging his nose with hers, "I do believe the earth has moved."


End file.
